


Lobelia Sackville-Baggins Is Dead

by Virtuella



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-20
Updated: 2010-11-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 07:31:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/134604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Virtuella/pseuds/Virtuella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who killed her?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day One

**Author's Note:**

> A Middle-earth Murder Mystery. AU, obviously. Middle-earth belongs to Tolkien. Thanks to Dreamflower and Finlay for beta reading.

All was well in Lobelia Sackville-Baggins’ world. The rain had ceased, her head had stopped aching and three scones with raspberry jam and clotted cream were settling nicely in her stomach. Her finances were thriving and as of yesterday she owned a full set of silver desert spoons. Life was good. Admittedly, her son was dead, well, that was unfortunate. Still, the whole dreadful affair with the ruffians had brought its benefits. People treated her with more respect since she had attacked the ruffians with her umbrella, a course of action which, while it had brought unexpected repercussions in the form of prolonged imprisonment, had given her immense satisfaction at the time.

Bag  End, it was true, had gone back to Frodo Baggins – she couldn’t stand the idea of living in a smial where her dear Lotho had been murdered – and she was loath to see it now in the hands of that upstart of a gardener. However, these circumstances impinged only marginally on her happiness,  in fact, they enhanced it, because the pleasures of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins depended on some kind of grudge to hold on to much in the way other people’s pleasures required sunshine or a good cup of tea. She was well supplied then, and on top of these blessing, she was in the possession of the most important ingredient for contentment: somebody to nag. The parlour maid, a jittery hobbit lass of not quite twenty-five, stood on a stepladder and dusted the ornaments on a high shelf.

“Careful with that vase, you clumsy oaf,” hissed Lobelia. “It is an heirloom from my great-grandmother.”

The maid, who hadn’t even touched the vase, gave a nervous courtesy which made the stepladder wobble precariously. Lobelia Sackville-Baggins pursed her lips and leaned back into the cushions. She’d shown that reckless lass who was mistress of the house! All was well in Lobelia Sackville-Baggins’ world - but not for very much longer…

~oOoOo~

In the early afternoon, the news spread through the village like butter on a hot potato.

“Lobelia Sackville-Baggins is dead!”

“Who killed her?” asked Pippin, who sat in the public room of the Jolly Squirrel Inn in the company of a plate of roast mutton, a pint of beer, and Merry.

“What in all the world makes you think she has been killed?” asked Merry.

Pippin turned his tankard around in his hand and wiped over the table with his sleeve.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Somehow, I have such a feeling.”

“That’s a very strange kind of feeling to have, especially given Lobelia’s age.”

“I know, Merry. Nevertheless, the feeling is there. I would like to go and check it out.”

“But Pippin, we wanted to get back on the road within the next hour. Sam is awaiting us.”

“It won’t kill him to wait a bit longer.”

“I don’t like the way you suddenly seem so fond of using that word.”

“Which word?”

“Kill.”

Pippin paid the innkeeper and fastened the buttons on his jerkin. He picked up his knapsack and gestured to Merry to shoulder his.

“Let’s go,” he said.

“Go where, exactly?”

“To the scene of the crime, of course. Before all the tracks are cold.”

~oOoOo~

To say that the village was in uproar would have been an exaggeration. Uproaring, like its brother Panicking and its second cousin Rampaging, is an energetic and disorderly activity that doesn’t come easily to hobbit natures. But there were unquestionably a few concerned looking hobbits walking about the streets, and clusters of hobbits standing by the garden gates engaged in conversations that almost  certainly didn’t deal with the details of the apple harvest.

A young shirriff guarded the door to Lobelia Sackville-Baggins’ smial. He looked ill at ease and was only too glad to grant entry to the sons of the Thain and the Master of Buckland respectively. Pippin nodded grimly.

“See, Merry? Something’s fishy here.”

Merry looked round the entrance hall and sniffed.

“Yes,” he said. “At a guess, I would say she had smoked trout for lunch.”

They entered the parlour, where two other shirriffs stood bent over the pitiful thing that was the body of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins. One of them was shown to be a senior by a green rather than a black feather in his cap. They looked up, startled.

“Good afternoon, good sirs,” said Merry. “Excuse us barging in like this. My cousin here would like to know what exactly has happened.”

“Well, Mister Took,” said the senior shirriff and touched his cap with his right hand. “It seems that she is dead.”

“We’ve heard that much,” replied Pippin. “Who killed her?

The shirriff scratched his ear.

“We’ve found this a bit of a puzzler, Mister Took, but now you mention it, yes, it does look almost as if someone’s killed her. You see, her skull’s cracked, or so Doctor Hornblower said.”

He stepped aside to let the two gentlehobbits inspect the corpse. Lobelia lay stretched out halfway between the fireplace and her armchair. Her mauve and grey striped dress looked as neat as ever, but across her temple was a deep, ugly gash. Blood had clotted in her grey hair, had splattered on her white lace collar and run in glistening rivulets down the side of her face.

“And where is Doctor Hornblower?” asked Merry.

“He’s gone to the privy, Mister Brandybuck. He wasn’t feeling too well after he had examined the poor soul.”

The second shirriff, Merry couldn’t help noticing, looked a bit greenish around the nose.

“Has anything been taken?” asked Pippin. “And have you found any signs of an intruder?”

“It’s hard to say, Mister Took,” replied the senior shirriff. “The window was open, but on such a fine day as this, that’s to be expected. I suppose someone could have come in that way. We can’t say if anything’s been stolen. Only one to know would be the maid, and the poor thing’s taken such a fright that she’s all shaking with sobs and not a word to be got out of her. We sent her home to her mum.”

“Hm. I think I shall have a little look around the smial,” said Pippin. “Perhaps I will find some clues.”

He plodded off along the corridor. Merry gingerly sat down on the edge of the sofa.

“Has her family been told yet?” he asked.

“We’ve sent a messenger to Hardbottle to fetch her cousin Bracegirdle.” A new thought, not exactly a happy one, but bordering on happy, seemed to enter the shirriff’s mind. “You wouldn’t mind, Mister Brandybuck...I mean, it might take a while before Mr Bracegirdle gets here, and we’ve got reports to write and all…I mean, if you and Mister Took would be so good as to stay here until Mr Bracegirdle arrives, then young Rudy here and I could get away and see to our other duties.”

Merry thought with some longing of the dinner table at Bag End, but he felt the solemn obligation, now they had forced themselves on the scene, to do what he could to help.

“That will be quite all right,” he said, and with hastily muttered expressions of thanks, the two shirriffs scurried away. Merry stared out of the window so he wouldn’t have to look at the body of Lobelia.  Absentmindedly, he reached down to pick up a hard object he had set his foot on. It was a broken piece of fine porcelain, about half the size of his palm, of a deep green colour and painted with what looked like part of a butterfly wing. He put it in his pocket. With a sigh, he smoothed down his waistcoat. Could Pippin have been right from the start?  He could imagine any number of hobbits hating Lobelia, but would anyone really kill her? It seemed too unhobbitlike.

“There are windows open all over this smial,” said Pippin when he came back. “Anybody could have come in.”

“What in all the Shire are you wearing?” said Merry and gaped at the thing that perched on Pippin’s head; a kind of hat, made from sturdy cloth with a small grey and brown check pattern. It had a round brim at the front and another at the back, as well as two ear flaps which were, however, currently tied together on top.

“I don’t know,” said Pippin and lit his pipe. “I found it in the mathom room. It just seemed the right thing to wear.”

He took a puff and began to wander up and down the room.

“Ha!” he said suddenly and picked up something from the floor. “What do we have here?”

Merry screwed up his eyes.

“Looks like a piece of cake to me,” he said.

“Indeed,” said Pippin and inspected the morsel with keen interest. “See, here, it has a bit of raisin clinging to it. What a wonderful clue!”

“How so?”

“Well, don’t you understand, Merry? From this clue we can deduct that the murderer was fond of raisin cakes.”

“That would be just about every hobbit in the Shire then. Besides, I think it more likely that you’ve found the last remains of Lobelia’s  afternoon tea.”

Pippin dropped the crumb on the sideboard. “Perhaps that wasn’t the clue we need, then,” he said and lifted the curtain. “Ah! Wait till you see this!”

Triumphantly, he held up a tiny scrap of fabric.

“This was stuck to the window frame. The murderer must have climbed in and torn his breeches on the frame. We can deduct that the murderer wears…” -  he peered at his sensational clue -  “mauve and grey striped muslin breeches.”

“Pippin,” said Merry with the tiniest hint of exasperation. “Does that strike you as very likely?”

“Not likely, perhaps, but it will make it all the easier to track him down if he wears such conspicuous trousers. I shall tell the shirriffs straight away. Where are they gone anyway?”

“They had reports to write. And Pippin, will you stop a minute to consider if your clue would maybe allow a different deduction?”

“Like what?” asked Pippin, clutching the fabric.

Wordlessly, Merry pointed to the lifeless figure of Lobelia.

“Do you see that tear on her sleeve? _My_ deduction is that she stood looking out of the window and ripped her dress on the window frame.”

“Oh,” said Pippin, deflated. “But I was not far off, eh? _Somebody_ ripped a garment on the window frame.”

At which point they were interrupted, because Doctor Hornblower came in.

“Mister Brandybuck! Mister Took!” he exclaimed. “I did not expect to see you here.”

“We did not expect to be here, either,” said Merry with a stern glance at Pippin, who ignored both the look and the comment and seized the doctor’s arm.

“Well, my dear Doctor Hornblower, what can you tell us about the murder weapon?”

“You think it was murder?” asked the doctor, bewildered. “Well, I don’t know about that. All I can tell you is that she was hit on the head with a heavy object, or else she fell and landed on something hard, like the edge of the table. I would have taken it for an accident.”

There was an expression almost of disappointment on Pippin’s face. Then he walked over to the table and pulled a magnifying glass out of his pocket.

“No,” he said after a couple of minutes’ scrutiny. “There are no traces of blood anywhere on the table edge. I think you must be mistaken, Doctor Hornblower.”

“If you say so, Mister Took.” Doctor Hornblower was a respectable hobbit, brought up with the notion of proper deference to his betters. He grabbed his bag, which had been sitting behind the door. “If you will excuse me now. I will go into the village and send a woman to see to the poor soul’s body.”

“I should think not!” replied Pippin sharply.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The body has to remain as it is, until this case has been solved. Or were you trying to destroy the evidence, Doctor Hornblower?”

“Of course not, Mister Took,” stuttered the doctor. “Good day to you.” He hurried off.

“This is most baffling indeed,” said Pippin. He stomped across the carpet and sank down in Lobelia’s armchair, crushing at least half a dozen invaluable clues in the process. “What shall we do now, Merry?”

“I’m amazed you’re asking my opinion all of a sudden,” said Merry in a tone that verged on the sour, if not the outright vinegary. “Our plans are completely overthrown. It’s too late now to travel on to Hobbiton today. We must send a message to Sam. And then, as soon as Mr Bracegirdle arrives, we should think about dinner.”

“Yes,” said Pippin. “Good idea. I think we should go back to the inn. I could murder a pot roast.”

“Pippin! You’ve done it again. You have nothing but murder on your mind.”

“Do I? Must be the circumstances. We shall return here tomorrow morning and clear up this mystery.”

“But Pippin…”

“We can’t let a murderer run about in the Shire, can we?”

“I suppose not.”

“There now!” Pippin leaned back, satisfied that he had gained his point.


	2. Day Two

By the following morning, rumour had made the rounds that Lobelia Sackville-Baggins was not only dead, but dead in a very suspicious manner and that Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took themselves were investigating the case. The original tale, fairly modest as far as tales go, had quickly become embellished with all sorts of highly imaginative additions such as a whole set of silver cutlery gone missing or an umbrella fight with a disgruntled neighbour, yes, even with a muttered hint that Sharkey wasn’t as dead as had been hitherto assumed and had come to take his revenge on the old lady. It had, indeed, become a tall tale, notably taller than most folk who lived in that village.

As Merry and Pippin walked towards the house shortly after a combined first and second breakfast, they were accosted by a plethora of hobbits in a variety of manners, ranging from the seemingly concerned to the downright nosy.

“Could I be of any assistance, Mr Took? I have seen suspicious individuals in the village of late -”

“Oh, be quiet, Sandy Boffin, just because you don’t like your in-laws doesn’t mean they’re suspicious! Don’t listen to him, Mr Brandybuck.”

“What are you going to do about it, Mr Took? Will there be an arrest?”

“Has anything been stolen, Mr Brandybuck? I’ve heard as there was this whole set of jewellery, pearl necklaces and all…”

“It was that Camelia Burrows, wasn’t It? I’ve never trusted her.” 

Since the two hobbits thus addressed made very little in the way of a reply, a sizeable group of villagers began to follow them to see if information might not be obtained by simply hanging on. When they reached Lobelia’s garden gate, Pippin turned round to this random entourage and raised his hand.

“There is no need to worry,” he said. “Everything is under control. I suggest you all go back to your homes now and leave the case to me and my friend Hastings…” Pippin hesitated and looked momentarily befuddled. “…to me and my friend, hasting over from the inn as quickly as we could this morning,” he finished lamely.

The crowd appeared to have half a mind to hold its ground, but under the indignant stare of the two most impressive hobbits in the Shire, it reluctantly dispersed.

Inside the smial, the self-appointed sleuth and his sidekick  were greeted by Mr Bracegirdle, a rosy-cheeked middle-aged hobbit who had spent, it has to be assumed, a rather uncomfortable night in one of the guest rooms. He had paid heed to Pippin’s urgent appeal the previous evening not to move or otherwise disturb the body of the “victim,” as Pippin expressed himself, but now he felt obliged to point out that this might not be feasible for much longer, especially if the fine weather continued. Already, keeping the flies away was becoming a bit of a problem.

“You have two days to do whatever you think is necessary,” he said with as much authority as a Bracegirdle could muster towards a Brandybuck and a Took. “We shall have the funeral on the third. It isn’t decent to wait longer.”

“But -”

“He’s right, Pip. Mr Bracegirdle, we are very grateful for your understanding. This must be an unsettling time for you. Of course we will respect the family’s wishes.”

“Thank you, Mr Brandybuck. And now, if you will excuse me, I need to spend some time in the study. There are a lot of matters to arrange.”

“Of course, Mr Bracegirdle.” Merry opened the door for Lobelia’s cousin and closed it behind him.

“I hope you have a plan,” he said to Pippin once they were alone. “You know very well that by now half the Shire expects you to solve this “case” as you call it. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Shirriffs didn’t even turn up again.”

“Hm.”

Pippin paced about the room and peeked into various corners that had escaped his scrutiny the day before.

“We should ask ourselves,” he said and brandished a shiny metal object, “why there is a hatpin stuck in the pincushion. And here, look, why is this porcelain cat lying on top of this pile of letters?”

“A paperweight?” suggested Merry. “Really, Pippin, I don’t see where all this is supposed to lead.”

“We have to think about the clues, Merry. They are the key to the mystery. Once we fit all the clues logically together, we will get our solution. We have to use the little grey cells.”

“You mean the lockholes?” said Merry, aghast.

“No, I mean…well, I’m not sure what I mean. But listen, Merry, the porcelain cat could be the murder weapon. “

“If you really think it was murder then lots of things could be the murder weapon, Pip. A frozen leg of mutton, for example, and then the murderer could have eaten it up afterwards.”

“How could you freeze a leg of mutton? And in September, too? No, no, that makes no sense.”

Pippin knelt down beside Lobelia’s body and inspected her fingernails, then he stood up again and stared up at the ceiling.

“Is there something wrong with your upper lip, Pip?”

“My lippip?”

“Your lip, you dozy muffin. You keep stroking it and making that strange twiddling movement with your fingers.”

Pippin frowned and squinted down on his hand, which had indeed just been engaged as Merry had described.

“Now that you mention it, Merry, yes, I do feel a little odd under the nose. Somehow naked, if you know what I mean.”

“No, Pippin, I confess I do not have the remotest idea what you mean.”

Unperturbed, Pippin picked up the porcelain cat and weighed it in his hand.

“This is what I think,” he said. “Doctor Hornblower said she was hit with a hard object. I don’t think it was this cat, after all, because it’s so round and smooth, and besides, I think it would have shattered. It would have been something with an edge. Think of the beer tankards at the inn. They’re round, but they have edges at the top and bottom. You could hit someone quite fatally with such a tankard, I’m sure. The motive must be blackmail. That would be just like Lobelia. She found out a dark secret about a well respected hobbit. She began to send blackmail letters and in her greed demanded more and more money until the hobbit in question was desperate. He arranged to travel through the village in the company of a friend, who was supposed to provide an alibi, and went to the inn. There he ordered three tankards of beer for his friend so that halfway through the meal, the friend had to seek the privy. While the friend was away, that hobbit took one of the tankards, ran up to Lobelia’s smial, climbed in through the window and hit her over the head with the tankard. It makes perfect sense. It was you, Merry. You slew -”

“But I didn’t, Pippin! It makes no sense at all. You only had one pint and you didn’t go to the privy at all.”

Pippin sighed.

“I know. It was just my conclusion. I suppose I’ll have to begin all over again. I hadn’t taken the hatpin and the fingernails into account anyway.”

“The fingernails?”

“She has two broken fingernails, and a splinter of wood under one.”

“So what astute conclusions do you draw from that?”

Pippin ran his fingers along the hatpin. He leaned his elbow on the windowsill and looked out  into the garden.

“I would say the murderer never entered the smial. He came to the window and lured Lobelia over with a request to see one of her hatpins. Lobelia refused, put her hatpin firmly into her pin cushion and instead came to the window and waved her walking stick at the hobbit. She and the intruder became involved in a fight, during which he wrestled the stick from her and hit her over the brow. Yes, that’s it, Merry. The murderer must have been someone Lobelia knew, otherwise she’d probably not have come to the window at all. It must be someone who is prone to playing silly practical jokes like asking old ladies for their hatpins, and it must be someone who has some experience in fighting. Also, it would have to be a tall hobbit, because the window, as you can see, is fairly high above the ground. So, you see, Merry, it’s all perfectly clear. I did it myself.  I slew -”

“But, Pippin, how could you have done such a thing?”

“I didn’t, Merry. But my logical conclusion -”

“Your conclusion, Pippin, is anything but logical. Lobelia might have attacked the ruffians with her umbrella, but she wouldn’t wrestle with you if you came to speak to her at her parlour window, no matter how silly you might be.”

With a downcast expression that would have melted the icy heart of a Baked Evendim, Pippin returned to his meanwhile customary seat and pulled at his hair. Soon, however, his featured brightened up again.

“I know, Merry! The motive! The motive is really important. Who would have a motive to kill Lobelia?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Pip. It’s not like hobbits to kill people, but I have to admit that if anyone was likely to have a lot of enemies, it would be Lobelia. So in that case I’d say, anyone who knew her had a motive.”

“Exactly, Merry. And the better someone knew her, the stronger the motive. That must be it. Can you imagine spending years and years in the same smial with her, with her constant nagging, her unreasonable demands, the dour face? It would drive anyone to distraction. It’s totally obvious to me now. It was Otho.”

“Otho? But he has been dead for over ten years!”

Pippin sighed again. “I just don’t seem to get the hang of this. Maybe the second murder will give us more clues.”

“What makes you think there will be a second murder?”

“Isn’t there usually?”

“Pippin! There aren’t usually _any_ murders in the Shire!”

At this point they were interrupted by a knock at the front door. It was the senior shirriff who apparently had run out of reports to write and thus felt obliged to return to the scene of the crime. He touched his cap, nodded at Merry and Pippin and shook hands with Mr Bracegirdle, who had just emerged from the study

“My sincerest sympathy, Mr Bracegirdle,” muttered the shirriff. “It is a most distressing case. I am only glad that Mr Brandybuck and Mr Took have been so kind to take over the investigation.”

“Um,” said Merry, “I wouldn’t exactly say that we…”

“Oh, Mr Brandybuck,” said Mr Bracegirdle, “there’s no need to be so modest. Pillars of the community you two are, I always say, and may I add, on behalf of my whole family, that we have every trust in you bringing to light, um, whatever there is to bring to light.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr Bracegirdle,” said Pippin. “And I can assure you that we will. In fact, the investigation is almost complete. We have -”

“However,” interrupted Merry and began to pull Pippin away by the arm, “we are finished for today and will return to the inn for our dinner. Good night, Mr Bracegirdle. Good night, Mr…?”

“Underhill,” replied the shirriff.

“Oh, for goodness sake,” mumbled Merry.

“Pardon?” Shirriff Underhill looked confused.

“Nothing. Good night.”

“We’ll be back first thing in the morning and confirm the final details,” shouted Pippin over his shoulder as Merry hurtled him down the garden path. “Good night!”

Merry shook his head.

“That’s a fine mess you’ve gotten us into, Pip!”


	3. Day Three

Another day couldn’t help but dawn over the stricken smial of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins when two luckless sleuths reported for work in the parlour. Merry, who had at last convinced his cousin that there were no more clues to be gained from the corpse, had a quiet word with Mr Bracegirdle, and half an hour later two stout village women appeared to prepare the body for the funeral. The removal of this particular piece of evidence improved, if not the prospects of solving the crime, then at least the smell in the room. Pippin, who had until then bustled about with the grace and serenity of a nervous beaver,  immediately settled into the armchair and assumed an aspect of deep concentration.

“Let me think…” he mumbled.

“Yes, I will let you think. I hope you will think up something sensible.”

But Pippin didn’t reply, he was already lost in a peculiar world of his own. Merry decided to have a look around the smial and garden, because he began to suspect that Pippin might very well have overlooked important evidence during his initial inspection. However, he uncovered nothing out of the ordinary. Whatever else one might have thought about Lobelia, she had kept her home in good order, and there seemed nothing at all out of place. He looked in on Mr Bracegirdle, who sat at the elegant rosewood desk in Lobelia’s study and industriously scratched his quill over the parchment.

“Is everything all right with you?”

“Oh, yes, thank you for the asking, Mr Brandybuck. I’m so relieved you’re getting on with the investigating. I’m just compiling a list of valuables which I know to belong to this household and which should be collected as soon as possible so they can be distributed according to Cousin Lobelia’s will. Her silver spoons, her amber collier, her heirloom vase, those kinds of things.”

“Very conscientious, Mr Bracegirdle,” said Merry  and left with a friendly nod.

Back in the parlour he found Pippin busy. He had a ball of pink yarn on his lap and two clicking needles in his hands.

“What are you doing there, Pippin?”

“I’m knitting.”

“Why?”

“It helps to concentrate the thoughts.”

“Pink?”

“It’s all I found in the sewing basket.”

“Pippin, I don’t want to put any pressure on you, but there’s a Bracegirdle sitting in the study who expects you to solve a crime, and the whole village is full of people who entertain much the same idea. Do you really think it’s the right time to knit a pink…scarf?”

“You know,” replied Pippin, undisturbed by this mild reproach, “this whole affair puts me in mind of old Mrs Goodbody over in Whitwell. She was also always nagging people and she was believed to have creatively acquired the odd silver spoon or two. And she came to a sticky end.”

“Did she?”

“Yes. She drowned in a vat of treacle.”

“Really, Pippin, I don’t see what this has got to do with anything here. We’re not in Whitwell here.”

“Ah, but hobbit nature is the same everywhere. And then,” continued Pippin, “there was that widow who lived in the cottage near Frogmorton, remember her? Had a sharp tongue, and no mistake. Remember, one winter morning, she went out to get her firewood and slipped on a frozen puddle. She hit her head on a stone, and after that she was never the same again.”

“No, she wasn’t, Pip. She was dead. And I still don’t understand how this can help us at all with this investigation for which you have so wisely volunteered. You’d better come up with a more convincing theory.”

Pippin glared at his knitting and tried to pick up the stitches he’d dropped five rows before. This kept him occupied for the best part of ten minutes. Merry‘s fingers drummed on the armrest of the sofa, but since it was a well-upholstered sofa, he produced barely a sound. Eventually, Pippin looked up, his face lit by another ludicrous idea.

“What about this then? I’ve just thought of it. You know the old children’s song?

 _Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet  
Eating her curds and whey,  
Along came a spider,  
Who sat down beside her  
And frightened Miss Muffet away_

That rhyme is giving us an important clue, Merry! Miss Muffet, I mean, Lobelia sat here in her armchair on this cushion which might well be called a tuffet. We had already agreed on the first day that she was probably eating a cake, which could be the curds and whey. The window was open – and in came a spider! Merry, one of the Mirkwood spiders must have escaped and come here into the Shire. The spider sat down beside Lobelia and –“

“What nonsense!  If there was a Mirkwood spider on the lose here, we’d have heard all about it. And spiders are not known for hitting their victims over the head. We can’t look for clues in nursery rhymes. Honestly, Pip, you might as well try to solve the mystery by singing _Ten Green Bottles Hanging On The Wall._ ”

“Not a bad idea at all, Merry. I’m glad you’re getting into the spirit of things at last.  Let me see. _There were ten green -_ “

“Pippin! I was joking!”

“Oh.”

They concentrated on the respective occupations of their hands for a while, Pippin on his knitting, Merry on his finger drumming, and then Pippin said wistfully,

“It seems a shame that I don’t have a nephew.”

“You have three older sisters, Pip, I think there’s a good chance that one day you’ll have a nephew.”

“But it would be so good to have one now,” insisted Pippin.  “I would imagine he would be a poet of sorts, and he would support me in my old age. I think I will ask whichever of my sister first has a son to call him Raymond.”

“Pippin, I think you’re going mad. Wait, listen, there’s someone coming up the path. I’ll get the door, save disturbing Mr Bracegirdle. It’s probably for you anyway.”

He went to open and to his surprise, Sam walked in and brushed the dust of his light brown travelling coat. Merry eyed the garment with curiosity. It had large buttons down the front, square pockets at the sides and an overall crumpled look that didn’t fit the neat habits of Samwise Gamgee.

“Well, hullo, Sam! Whatever brings you here?”

“My Elven cloak‘s in the wash,” said Sam, who must have noticed Merry’s look. “Hullo, Mr Merry! I hope you won’t mind, but I thought, when I got your message – and thank you very much for that – so, as I said, I thought it would be best if I came up here and saw what was going on. I asked my wife, too, and she quite agreed.”

“Well, come in, come in. Pippin’s in the parlour. He’s pretending to be a sleuth, you know.”

Pippin greeted Sam with moderate enthusiasm but didn’t put his knitting aside. Sam pulled a long, cylindrical object from his coat pocket, lit it and began to smoke.

“What is that, Sam?”

“Oh, it’s my little new invention, Mr Merry. I’m quite proud of it, I must say. You see, when I came up here this morning, I found that I had forgotten my pipe, but since I had leaf in my pouch, I thought of rolling it up into this sausage shape, and it lights up real nicely. See?”

He took a puff and waved about the hand that held the strange new smoking device.

“That’s all very well, Sam, but it won’t help us find the murderer,” said Pippin with what might have been called impatience in his voice, if such a thing was thinkable among such dear friends. Sam’s hand dropped and his eyes widened.

“Has there been a murder? Bless me, Mr Pippin, why didn’t you tell me earlier? Who was killed?”

“Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, of course. Didn’t Merry write that in the note he sent you?”

“But she wasn’t murdered!”

“Oh, yes, Sam, she was. Someone cracked her skull. We have Doctor Hornblower’s word for that. And we’ve found all sorts of clues.  A bit of fabric on the windowsill, broken fingernails, a hatpin, a piece of cake. We’re almost certain that Lobelia had tea and cake shortly before she was murdered. And I’ve had several theories about who killed her, though I need to think about them some more…”

Sam shook his head sadly.

“No, Mr Pippin. Begging your pardon, but I know it was an accident.”

“Nonsense, Sam, how would you know that?”

“Her maid told me.”

“Her maid?”

“Yes, Bluebell, the old lady’s maid. You see, when I came up here earlier, I thought I should really call on my cousin Elodie – she’s my third cousin, once removed, on my mother’s side, you know, my mother was a Goodchild from Bywater – and, as I said, I thought I’d better call on her, seeing how I hadn’t visited her for years, and there she was all pale and shaky and saying that her girl Bluebell, who’d been maid to that Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, was come home all in tears and couldn’t speak a word for a whole day, but last night, after Elodie had given her a good, strong camomile tea, she’d told her the whole story, if you get my meaning. So I asked what the story was, since how you and Mr Merry had send me a message about that Mrs Sackville-Baggins being dead and all, and so Bluebell told it all to me, poor lass, all in tears she was again. And that’s how I found out.”

“Found out what, Sam?”

“Well, it was like this, Bluebell said. She was standing on a ladder dusting things on a high shelf when that Mrs Sackville-Bagging left the room, probably to follow a call of nature, if you get my meaning. She slammed the door behind her, or else the wind blew it shut, ‘tis not quite sure, and little Bluebell got such a fright that she knocked over a green vase what her mistress held precious and it smashed on the floor. So as soon as she heard the noise,  that Mrs Sackville-Bagging came running back in and when she saw the broken vase, she began wailing and scolding and getting herself in quite a state. She walked up to the window and then she fainted or her heart stopped, in any case she fell right over and hit her head on the windowsill. Bluebell rushed up to her and turned her over, and when she saw all the blood she began to scream. She shoved the broken pieces of the vase under the sofa and ran outside to call for help. And that’s all she said, Mr Pippin, with your leave. But you can go over herself and ask her; ‘tis quite true.”

In the ensuing silence, Merry imagined he _heard_ a faint rush as the blood rose in Pippin’s face. Eventually, Pippin got up, walked up to the sofa and peered underneath.

“Oh,” he said.

Merry leaned forward and took a look himself. Sure enough, a pile of green porcelain shards lay under the sofa. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the piece he had picked up two days before.

“What’s that, Merry?”

“Oh, just a shard I found here on the day of the murder.”

“The day of the accident, if you don’t mind. Mr Merry.”

“The day of the accident, yes. I didn’t think anything of it then and later I forgot about it.”

Surprisingly, a look of relief spread over Pippin’s face.  He lifted his head and put his hands on his hips.

“Ah,” he said smugly. “No doubt I would have solved this case in the most brilliant manner, but there is nothing even the shrewdest investigator can do if _Merry withholds crucial evidence._ ”

There was a pause, filled with all manners of boding as such pauses usually are, and then a crashing noise when Merry’s forehead very firmly and deliberately connected with the table top.

“Just one more thing,” said Sam from the doorway. “Why were you knitting with a hatpin, Mr Pippin?”

The End


End file.
